


Find Your Love

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Chanyeol is easy





	Find Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: cheating, kris lawsuit mention, ksoo being kinda a dick
> 
> 2014 fic from a defunct chansoo exchange

Their sneakers squeak against the wood floors, and Kyungsoo lets out a breathless puff of a laugh at the soft, surprised sound Chanyeol releases into his mouth. He follows it with a husky groan, and Kyungsoo tugs on his hair even harder, tipping Chanyeol's head back, baring his throat.

The after practice sweat is still a residual sheen on Chanyeol’s skin, but Kyungsoo is heedless of the messiness, the bitter taste of salt as he licks along a bobbing Adam’s apple, sucks hard, sure to leave marks.

Chanyeol is always so willing and eager for this, hyped on adrenaline and distressingly needy as he falls into Kyungsoo, bends to his whims. He twists up towards Kyungsoo’s every heated kiss, presses back toward his every heavy caress. Kyungsoo’s head is dizzy with the sudden rush of arousal, rush of power.

Kyungsoo's head crashes forward, teeth scraping at a defined sternum, lips catching on a loose white tank. He presses an insistent thigh between Chanyeol's trembling legs, forces Chanyeol to angle further, slump more desperately into the smaller. And they fit together like they were meant for this, almost.

Their groans echo off the mirrored walls, as Kyungsoo presses, Chanyeol takes.

This is all routine. Practiced caresses. Familiar moans. Known skin.

They’ve been doing this for almost 2 years at this point. Stealing kisses, handjobs, blowjobs, _more_ when time, schedules, room shuffles allow.

But there's a thrill, a heat, a desperate _need_ in it, nonetheless. Like this, pressed tight, grinding hard as they pant into each other’s mouths.

Chanyeol comes with a breathless gasp, skin slick, shirt squeaking against the mirror as he slides down, laughs. And Kyungsoo presses even closer. Finds his own release with a grinding jerk, stuttering moan.

Kyungsoo collapses against Chanyeol, strung out, exhausted, muscles sore and skin buzzing in the most pleasant way. He’s grateful, affectionate, as the taller cradles Kyungsoo in his arms, grinning lazily, blinking slowly and dazedly in a post-orgasmic daze. Chanyeol is almost _beautiful_ like this, disconcertingly perfect like this.

"Kyungsoo," he breathes, voice husky, but eyes soft. His chin crashes against the top of Kyungsoo's head. His limbs are lanky but leaden, lacing tight around Kyungsoo's hypersensitive skin. It's almost too much, but Kyungsoo melts into it, as Chanyeol presses a succulent kiss to his jawline. "Kyungsoo," he repeats. And his voice is terribly fond.

"Thanks for that," Kyungsoo laughs in response. He indulges him with a kiss. He drags his fingers through sweaty red bangs, cradles a sharp jawline, thumbs at corner of Chanyeol’s large, heavy-lidded eyes.

Chanyeol preens under the attention, lips curling into something dazed, fucked out, but still beautiful.

And Kyungsoo regards him for a beat before urging him up.

"Don't want to move," Chanyeol groans in protest. But he slides away easily enough when Kyungsoo persists, shoving at Chanyeol’s shoulders as he tests his own still-trembling limbs.

Chanyeol huffs about it, nonetheless, as he rights his clothing, and Kyungsoo spares one more long, lingering glance at his own handwork. The red strands plastered to Chanyeol's flushed forehead, the bruises blooming across his neck and collarbone, the glaze over his wide eyes.

Kyungsoo smirks as he rises on too-wobbly legs.

And he can feel Chanyeol’s eyes on him—on his ass—as he exits the room.

 

In retrospect, it was a mutual, sloppy, hot inevitable. Midwrestle, Chanyeol meeting him blow for blow, pressing him down by the throat, limbs crowding into Kyungsoo’s space. Because Chanyeol never treats him like he's breakable. Never handles him like he's fragile. Never takes it for granted that Kyungsoo can handle himself.

They're equals. Well-matched, and there's a certain heady punch that comes with Chanyeol’s roughness. Even—especially—when Chanyeol had pinned him on the blue mat, knobby knees unrelenting against Kyungsoo’s sides as he’d laughed, cooed. Pressing down hard, hand unforgiving at Kyungsoo’s chest, Chanyeol hadn’t thought him delicate. Chanyeol had relished vocally in every physical victory, leaning forward to nuzzle against Kyungsoo’s nose, murmuring about how cute he looked like this. Disgustingly proud, disgustingly fond. And the simmer of irritation had been a slow burn beneath Kyungsoo’s sweaty, goosebumped skin.

And it has been anger, indignation, latent _want_ bubbling to the surface that had Kyungsoo arching his hips up, fisting Chanyeol’s hair, tugging him down to shove his tongue in Chanyeol’s mouth.

And it had become something else entirely, then, Kyungsoo flipping, pressing Chanyeol down, Chanyeol going distressingly lax in his hold, whining low, rocking back, begging as Kyungsoo’s kiss became filthier, sloppier.

His anger brimming and overflowing, being channeled into something hot and intense, Kyungsoo had gripped Chanyeol hard, kissed him harder, rutted against him hardest of all.

Orgasm, for Chanyeol, had come with the long, aching bite of fingernails against Kyungsoo’s shoulder blades, the softest, breathiest moan. Strung out as he was, he still ground upwards, panting filthily into Kyungsoo’s neck, encouraging him with the breathiest demands until Kyungsoo had come, too, explosively into his own boxers, biting down on Chanyeol’s taut neck.

And Kyungsoo had been irrevocably hooked.

 

It has softened since then, anger and bite gone, but they haven’t lost that fervor, that heat.

And now, almost two years later, Kyungsoo still relishes in the quiet bitten off gasps and hard bruising grips of Chanyeol’s fingers, urging him harder, faster, closer, or just _more_.

What they have, what they have established, is a mutually beneficial thing. A hot, perfect outlet, an easy enough friendship in the afterglow.

And it’s natural, easy. A lingering tug on Chanyeol’s sweaty, goosebumped arm. A certain arch of his eyebrow or quirk of his lips, and Chanyeol is making excuses, scrambling to follow. Eager to indulge, give, beg for it.

Two years—almost two years—is a long time. Long enough for Kyungsoo to know about all the secret, sensitive spots, pressing on them sometimes, when he's feeling extra bold or extra mean. Dancing fingers up Chanyeol’s thigh under the table at fansigns, moaning deliberately while eating food, scratching at the nape of Chanyeol’s neck, tugging at his hair, his ears during concerts.

It’s obvious enough for the others to no longer question when Chanyeol wanders into the room, hair disheveled, smile extra goofy, clothing askew, lips shiny and swollen.

During dinner, Kyungsoo drags his socked foot up Chanyeol’s bare leg, smirking into his pizza as Chanyeol chokes on his water. He presses his toes higher and higher, relishing in the tightening grip on Chanyeol’s plastic cup. Kyungsoo follows him into the shower afterwards, strips off his clothes and falls to his knees, laughing in between slick, smooth slides of his lips, and Chanyeol bites down on his fist to keep from gasping. Chanyeol eagerly returns the favor once he’s recovered, presses Kyungsoo against the shower tile, the water collecting on his eyelashes as he takes Kyungsoo into his mouth. It’s less smooth, less teasing, but no less exquisite, no less slick, and Kyungsoo makes sure to tug Chanyeol’s hair extra hard when he comes.

 

Chanyeol is safe. Chanyeol is easy. All long limbs, wide eyes, deep laughs, enthusiasm.

And it's almost distressingly easy to settle into the haze of him. Easy to forget that he's anything but the best—really _only_ —fuck Kyungsoo's ever had. And Chanyeol is easy to want. Tall, lean, long, but beneath Kyungsoo so small and pliant and eager. Kyungsoo likes the curve of Chanyeol’s body, the bite of his fingernails, the husky ruin of his moans. Kyungsoo likes to bite down on Chanyeol’s throat, press him bodily into the mattress, scrape his fingernails along the wide breadth of Chanyeol’s shoulders. He likes to grip his hips, holding him steady even as he makes Chanyeol fall apart.

And sometimes Chanyeol tastes like foreign toothpaste, smells like travel-sized packets of body wash, shampoo. Sometimes there is smeared eyeliner, glittery eyeshadow, press-on tattoos and skintight leather to peel away. Sometimes Chanyeol’s pupils are blown, lips too pink.

But the warmth of his skin, the press of his fingertips, the responsiveness of his body, they're distressingly similar. And Kyungsoo wants, takes, relishes

 

In Tokyo, veins still thrumming with the heady rush of fan approval, Kyungsoo bends Chanyeol over the hotel bed, forces Chanyeol face first into the mattress, fingers threaded through his obnoxiously red hair, Chanyeol’s lips dragging and catching on the silken sheets, moistening the material with every wrecked moan. Chanyeol gropes back, fingers clumsy but insistent as he tugs Kyungsoo into a sloppy kiss.

In Seoul, still smelling of recycled air, tasting like airplane food, Chanyeol drags Kyungsoo into his bed, spreads his legs, begs for Kyungsoo to take him with the huskiest, most ruined sort of desperation.

And in Los Angeles it’s Chanyeol doing the taking, hesitant and slow, one arm braced on the headboard, the other straining near Kyungsoo’s side, as his wide eyes glow in the harsh light. Chanyeol whispers how amazing he looks, how amazing he feels, how amazing he sounds. How Kyungsoo, like this, writhing down on his cock, is all he could ever want. And Kyungsoo is too far gone to respond, to register that maybe, maybe Chanyeol wants something more. And Chanyeol is shifting, nudging, just right, and Kyungsoo can’t think, can’t breathe, can only buck desperately as he comes.

Strung out, sated as he is in the aftermath, Kyungsoo melts with a languid moan, lets himself be maneuvered, and Chanyeol feels good, licking over his skin, mouthing at every individual knob of his spine. He allows it because it feels so fucking good, so fucking _right_ , almost like he was made just for this.

Chanyeol coaxes him onto his side, presses their foreheads together to breathe him in.

Chanyeol’s always been softer than him, too soft. And right now he’s looking at Kyungsoo like he's something particularly important. Something to keep. Kissing like it, too, after regarding him for a beat. His lips warm and searching and soft, he whispers affectionate nothings into Kyungsoo’s salty skin as he traces his lips in a circuit from mole to mole, playing connect the dots with his tongue. He holds him like he’s something to be treasured. Something delicate and fragile, so unlike that Chanyeol that Kyungsoo has been fucking up until this point. And Kyungsoo starts to maybe almost fear.

So Kyungsoo overcompensates. He makes a point of shoving him away extra hard. Kicking purposefully, insisting firmly, refusing disgustingly persuasive pouts, ignoring even husky promises of further sexual favors if he just lets himself be held, please, Kyungsoo, he’s so soft.

 

And it’s always been there, honestly, if Kyungsoo is honest with himself, honest about this.

Everything about Chanyeol is easy, loud, present. Open. Obvious. Even this.

This slow burn, this latent need on Chanyeol’s part, too. Chanyeol is too _soft_ for Kyungsoo, too _soft_ for this.

It overflows sometimes enough to stain their encounters.

Sometimes it's something slower, softer, deep kisses, reverent touches, tender fucks in hotel rooms and on their dorm bunks. Sometimes there’s adoration in the way Chanyeol sucks Kyungsoo’s cock into his mouth, hooks his legs around Kyungsoo’s waist, moans his name. And sometimes Chanyeol gropes for his hand in the dark, afterwards. Insists on wrapping him in those gorgeous too-long limbs, arguing that he's _earned_ cuddles after all the fine work he's put towards Kyungsoo’s orgasms. And his touches, kisses, voice are so persuasive and persistent, then, that it hardly feels like an acquiescence on Kyungsoo's part. When Kyungsoo wants it, too, when it feels so good, he can’t deny himself. And Chanyeol kisses Kyungsoo in almost gratitude, slow and careful, fingers soft against Kyungsoo’s jawline, lips warm, imploring.

Kyungsoo tries not to dwell on it. Tries to relax instead into Chanyeol’s persistent caress, indulge in the sweet, sweet release the elder offers him.

Unvoiced, that _something_ is easy to ignore. Easy to compartmentalize or dismiss.

Because if Chanyeol doesn’t say it aloud, if Kyungsoo just keeps on pretending, then it’s almost like it isn’t there. It’s almost like he’s imagined it. Especially with how easy Chanyeol makes it when he reverts to loud movements, wide-eyed wide-limbed enthusiasm, husky bellows, booming laughs. He snaps out of it easily enough. Eyes, fingertips, words not hinting at wanting or needing anything more than what Kyungsoo has been offering all along. Kyungsoo has been more than perfectly clear.

And this thing is becoming more explicit, more pronounced. Kyungsoo is _scared_. Doesn’t want to even _hint_ at reciprocating those unnamed, unvoiced desires.

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t touch him for a week. Touches himself instead. Avoids even platonic, falsely innocent encounters as he tries to sort it all out.

 

It’s supposed to be an indefinite asceticism, but Chanyeol squeezes his wrist extra hard after practice one Friday, heavy eyes searching. And Kyungsoo cracks.

They christen another bathroom stall, share another shower, indulge in a quickie in the dorm room, Chanyeol biting down on a pillow to keep quiet, Kyungsoo tugging on Chanyeol’s hair to bare his neck, sink his teeth deep.

Chanyeol rolls over afterwards, drags Kyungsoo into his bed. He persuades Kyungsoo with his mouth around his cock to let Chanyeol top again, Kyungsoo feel so _good_. And it’s soft again, desperate, needy in the most painful way, but Chanyeol doesn’t dwell on that softness in the aftermath. And Kyungsoo is grateful, brushes Chanyeol’s sweaty bangs back with a breathless laugh.

 

This is their default, their standard operating procedure, and it’s still mostly latent. Still manageable.

But then a dam—a member—breaks, and Chanyeol seeks Kyungsoo out in the chaos. Chanyeol is needy in a new, distressed please-distract-me-please-hold-me-down-through-this kind of way. He drags him into the room, presses him down into the bed.

“Look at me,” Chanyeol urges, wide, strong hands closing around Kyungsoo’s narrow hips, tilting him upwards with a firm, unforgiving grip. But his fingers remain whisper-soft, caressing the jut of his hipbones. “Look at me, Kyungsoo.” And Kyungsoo finds himself cradling Chanyeol’s head, looking down through heavy eyelashes as Chanyeol sucks him slowly, succulently, almost tenderly into his mouth.

And it’s an inverse. Extra intense from it’s newness. Because it’s usually Kyungsoo making Chanyeol fall apart like this, ruining Chanyeol like this. Chanyeol needs control, takes it, and pants, moans, broken please fall from Kyungsoo’s open lips. Kyungsoo doesn’t think to fight it, helpless to the staggering pleasure.

He lets himself be handled, lets himself be used, treasured, wanted.

And Chanyeol is dragging him into his arms, kissing his fingertips, his eyelids, the moles that dot his neck and chest. Chanyeol is easy, persuasive, cajoling with a soft pout, the most wicked gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes.

 

They deal with the aftermath in time. Buried in work, strained to the max, they don't allow themselves to feel. To ache.

June arrives with a flurry of activity. Schedules, concerts, CFs. No down time. No time to process.

Chanyeol, Kyungsoo celebrate their second year anniversary in transit, in a nondescript hotel room, shared, clothes they haven’t bothered to unpack. They note the date with a cursory glance to the phone, a blind grope for supplies. End the night, start the day with Chanyeol’s legs around Kyungsoo’s shoulders, cock pulsing in Kyungsoo’s hand. They cuddle afterwards, and it doesn’t feel like a concession. But Kyungsoo registers dimly, with the most muted, postorgasmic alarm, that maybe it really should.

And Chanyeol’s caresses become bolder, leave Kyungsoo stirring, as fingers tiptoe across Kyungsoo’s chest, linger at his nipples. They have another round. This time side to side, Kyungsoo’s front to Chanyeol’s back. Kyungsoo mouths hotly at the nape of his neck, tugs at his hair, bites his ears, pants into his skin, even as he moves punishingly, cruelly slow. Chanyeol gasps with every achingly unhurried drag of Kyungsoo’s cock inside of him, writhes back sinfully to urge him even faster. “Happy anniversary,” Kyungsoo rasps, as Chanyeol quakes in his arms, comes into his own fist.

It’s way too late, and Kyungsoo feels it again, after they’ve both come for the second time that night, curled into each other. He feels the undercurrent of need from kisses that linger too long, touches that fall to heavy, eyes that are more imploring than lustful.

But if Chanyeol doesn't say then Kyungsoo is free to pretend. Free to enjoy this thing, this enough.

And Chanyeol is easy, but he doesn’t let things _go_.

"Do you ever…Ryeowook mentions you a lot,” Chanyeol notes falsely casual, decidedly wrong, strained, soft. Kyungsoo pulls away from where he’s got his face pressed tight to Chanyeol’s bare collarbone. “Do you ever— _have_ you ever? Don’t you ever—I mean, Byunghun, he—you know, he said that maybe we, him and I, maybe we could…”

Chanyeol sighs deeply, and Kyungsoo notes dimly, with the phantom feel of Chanyeol’s mouth still echoing across his skin, that this is the most quiet and hesitant he’s ever seen Chanyeol before. He blinks up at him slowly.

Are we exclusive, he can read in Chanyeol’s furrowed brow, tightened fists, bitten lip. He feels it again. That thing he tries to discourage and dissect.

But Chanyeol doesn’t say it in so many words. Is too scared to, Kyungsoo thinks suddenly. He’s _scared_. Scared of this, too.

And it’s there. Unvoiced, but it’s there.

“I don’t,” Kyungsoo intones slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t either.”

“I shouldn’t?” Chanyeol echoes. His heart is hammering against Kyungsoo’s cheek and the risk of it, the pain, the uncertainty. And there is cruelty, too, in Kyungsoo’s purposeful avoidance. In pregnant pauses, smothered _I want more_ ’s. There is something awful in pretending that he doesn’t know what Chanyeol wants. But Kyungsoo wants to be awful to him for just a little bit longer.

“I think this is fine just the way it is,” Kyungsoo finally responds, skimming his fingers across Chanyeol’s bruised hipbones. His voice is soft, but firm, leaves no room for doubt. And Chanyeol arches into his caress with a breathy sigh. Because he wants, just enough, just likes this.

 

And Chanyeol is easy to want. Easy to claim. A giggling lump beneath his sheets, an oversized cheerleader, an eager, eager partner.

Chanyeol, who hums the loudest in gratitude when it's Kyungsoo's turn to cook, who likes to tug Kyungsoo into his lap during scary movie marathons, who rap-sings as he brushes his teeth. Chanyeol, who never hides how he feels, is never embarrassed or hesitant. Chanyeol, who doesn’t mind being open, affectionate, proud and public and pathetically fond. Chanyeol, who doesn’t _care_ , and Kyungsoo feels a certain shiver run down his spine every time the elder says his name. Chanyeol, who understands. Not resenting his reticence. Not demanding more. Except except except right now, when he is.

Chanyeol is so loud, a too big heart for his too big body animating his too big limbs, brightening his too big eyes. Too much, but just exactly that Kyungsoo wants and needs.

 

Kyungsoo, thankfully, isn’t given much of a chance to dwell.

(On how it isn’t so much a catalyst, a turning point, as a slow burn coming to fruition. How it’s been building up for a while, and Chanyeol is only just now coming the closest he has to grounding it in something real, how that makes Kyungsoo want to take those two years back)

They lose themselves in the routine, the hype, the loop. Too many schedules, too little sleep. And in the haze of it, in the stupor, in transit, Kyungsoo accepts Chanyeol’s ring. Has a solo. Schedules a catch-up during his downtime with an old friend.

 

They have chicken, beer, and Jaehwan links their fingers together with a disconcerting intimacy. Overloud, overbold.

Jaehwan reaches out to touch him afterwards, lingering in the narrow alley by the chicken place, hidden from the soft streetlights. Jaehwan is saying good night, cupping his palm around Kyungsoo’s cheek purposefully. There’s calculation, want, and Kyungsoo loses himself briefly in it, as Jaehwan’s thumb drags across his bottom lip. Jaehwan stares at him for a beat too long before he kisses him, tongue in his mouth, fingers in his hair. And Kyungsoo thinks dimly _He’s a friend. This is friendship. Friendship touches—kisses, gropes—are alright. Don’t count._

So Kyungsoo lets it happen. Kisses back, too. Parts his lip with a small sigh. Jaehwan tugs on his hair to deepen the angle, and Kyungsoo is tugging, too. He doesn’t have to reach as high, strain upwards. And his mouth tastes brand new, his movements bolder, hotter than what Kyungsoo is used to.

Jaehwan’s got a plush mouth (too plush), wandering fingers, sharp cheekbones, soft lips that part with a loud moan. And the timbre is wrong. _Jaehwan_ is wrong.

“Stop,” Kyungsoo insists, shoving suddenly, and Jaehwan pulls away. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth open, lips slick, slicker as he drags his tongue against his lower lip, and Kyungsoo follows the movement, even as he halts further action.

“I have—with. I _can’t_.”

Jaehwan bows his head. Leaves without further comment.

Kyungsoo doesn’t Kakao him back out of guilt. Kyungsoo kissed him back.

 

That Monday, freshly showered he’s dragged by a playfully persistent Chanyeol. His fingers are on Kyungsoo’s hips, thumbs skating under elastic, as he presses laughing, smacking, open-mouthed kisses against extra sensitive skin, and the guilt spikes as he gets a grip of Chanyeol’s soft wet hair.

“I kissed Jaehwan,” he confesses, a moaned whisper, and Chanyeol winces, drops Kyungsoo unceremoniously into the bed. Every single muscle goes taut, and the heat—the light—in his eyes dies out. The elastic stings, bites into his skin, and Chanyeol’s eyes are sharp, _hurt_.

“You _what_?” His tone is measured.

And it’s harder to pretend that what they have doesn’t have any sort of bearing in this, that what they indulge in isn’t real. When Chanyeol is looking at him with the most muted, precarious betrayal shining in his wide eyes.

“I—I kissed Jaehwan. He invited me to—”

“Fuck you,” Chanyeol hisses. Kyungsoo reaches out, holds on tight, and Chanyeol shakes his grip. “Get the fuck off of me.”

And the door slams, and Kyungsoo collapses forward, cries.

 

Everything about him becomes hard, quiet, withdrawn. Wrong.

And Chanyeol is easy to miss. Easy to want still. Hard, hard to forget. They have intersecting, intertwined schedules, rooms, lives.

It’s a physical ache, the most stifling, oppressive coldness, a distressing helplessness. And Kyungsoo didn’t want this. Kyungsoo didn’t choose.

Chanyeol is cruel. Punishes in his own way. He insists on keeping up appearances on stage. Continues to flirt, tease, laugh, _hurt_. He mentions him in interviews, touches him in public, and Kyungsoo follows suit, compelled to respond.

His fake touches, warmth, smile only last as long as camera shutters, phone batteries. It’s the most sanitized affirmation, the basest, barest sort of almost. For cameras, for fanservice, for fan accounts. And the ring burns around his finger as an awful reminder.

Kyungsoo feels hollowed out. At a loss. _Love me again_ , he wants to insist. Even though it isn’t fair. Even though it isn’t allowed. Even though he doesn’t deserve it. Can’t say it back. _Please love me again. Touch me again. I’m so sorry._.

He only makes it a week before he’s cracking, needing, sliding into Chanyeol’s room, back to the door so Chanyeol doesn’t have a choice.

And it’s coming to a head. The awful quietness reaching a sudden fever pitch.

 

“I want to talk,” he says, and Chanyeol tugs off his earphones, stiffens, jerks his head away, hisses out a “get out.”

“Chanyeol,” he insists, and Chanyeol shoves his books away. He stands up, gets close, looms over him. It's the first time he's ever used his height to his advantage like that, made Kyungsoo feel small, vulnerable. _Unimportant_.

“Get out,” he repeats, crowding in. Intimidation. The doorknob presses to Kyungsoo’s spine.

And Kyungsoo resents it, feels anger flare in his vein as he sets up his chin and meets his eyes. “I said I want to talk, Chanyeol.”

“About you cheating on me? Or about how I don’t let you fuck me anymore? _What_ do you want to talk about, Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo’s words—his carefully rehearsed words—die in his throat.

“You’re using me,” Chanyeol accuses, his hands clap beside Kyungsoo’s head. And he’s kissing close, but his eyes, the environment is so wrong. And his voice sounds so close to broken. "That's why—This isn’t real for you. And you’ve been using me.”

“We were...casual, you knew that.”

“Fucking somebody, that's not casual. Not when—I _asked_ you. I fucking asked you, and you said—”

“You didn't say. It doesn't count, Chanyeol. We never—” Kyungsoo starts, speaking to the open collar of Chanyeol’s shirt, the tension of his set jaw, and Chanyeol recoils. Kyungsoo looks up at him, and the hurt in Chanyeol’s eyes registers like a slap.

“That's bullshit. You—you _know_ —”

“That you love me?” Kyungsoo scoffs, needlessly cruel, needily lost. “How is that my fucking fault, Chanyeol?” It's a wince. Again. Sharper. But it’s not the playful, crinkle-eyed wince Chanyeol usually gives him. It isn't the kind of gesture that accompanies sharp movements, particularly biting banter. No, it’s a recoil. Chanyeol jerking back like he's been hurt, been burned.

"You're so full of shit, Kyungsoo. You're so fucking—you _knew_. You fucking _knew_ , and you just fucking pretended because it was convenient for you. It’s always about convenience for you. I’m just an easy thing. I'm not allowed to be sad. I'm not allowed to want things, too. It's always about you. What _you_ want, how _you’re_ scared. And you’re _using_ me. I don’t want to be used anymore. I need more from you. I’m just—I’m not a fucking _toy_ , Kyungsoo."

“You’re not my fucking boyfriend! I don’t have to—we’re _not_.”

“You’re so full of shit. That’s not—this isn’t the way you treat a fucking _friend_ , Kyungsoo. It fucking isn’t. This isn’t the way you treat somebody you don’t fucking hate.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“That’s a fucking step forward,” he hisses. “But it’s not enough. This thing, that you think I’ll settle for, it’s not enough.”

“What do you want from me?” Kyungsoo breathes, and Chanyeol presses his forehead against his. Resignation bleeding into his shoulders, lining his eyes.

“I want you to love me back. I want you to—stop making me love you. I want you to stop treating me like I’m just some warm body for you to f—”

“You _knew_ ,” Kyungsoo insists, whispers. He braves a hand upwards, feels the tremors coursing through Chanyeol’s body. Chanyeol arches into it, and Kyungsoo swipes at his Adam’s apple. Chanyeol’s pulse against his thumb is too fucking fast.

“So did you, Kyungsoo. But you didn’t care.”

“I don’t love you. I don’t _have_ to love you.”

“I—I told you that I was—fuck, I fucking asked you if we were real, and you said we were. You—you kept seeking me out and then pushing me away. And you’re not allowed to. You’re not allowed to push me away and then get mad at me for following suit. I don’t—I can’t _want_ this anymore.”

And Kyungsoo feels the sudden, distinct weight of the world on his shoulders as everything starts to fall apart. The distinct suffocation of implosion, loss.

“No, you’re not allowed to not want me,” he says then. “I need you to need me back, Chanyeol. I need you to—”

“Fuck you,” Chanyeol responds, more bite to his words now, but he’s still pressing so, so close. And from this angle, Kyungsoo can see how his eyes are too wide, too wet. They’re twinkling with unshed tears, brimming to the very cusp with them, and Chanyeol looks so pretty and awful and vulnerable with his heart broken like that. Kyungsoo’s chest aches. It makes him feel tight and wrong. “ _Fuck_ you.”

“Yes, fuck me,” Kyungsoo counters, breathes. “Fuck me. Want me. _Need_ me.”

Chanyeol’s breath rushes hot and wet against Kyungsoo’s skin, and Chanyeol is cupping his face. “I’m too easy for you,” he groans, but then he’s kissing him, and Kyungsoo is moaning into his mouth, snaking his arms to hold him fast, hold him closer.

Kyungsoo tastes the red hot burn of his anger, licks his way past to the quiet desperation of his need. And he’s missed this. The ease and perfection of this.

“I love you,” Chanyeol keeps insisting, shifting to suck on Kyungsoo’s throat, skim eager, warm, familiar fingers down Kyungsoo’s trembling body. “I love you, Kyungsoo.”

Chanyeol presses him down into his bed, swallows down Kyungsoo’s moans as he peels off his clothes. His body covers Kyungsoo’s completely, arms bracketed at Kyungsoo’s sides, hips cradled by Kyungsoo’s own, and Kyungsoo grinds up, causes the endless confessions to stutter as he finds a dirty pace, tugs on Chanyeol’s hair.

The drag of Chanyeol’s cock against Kyungsoo’s thigh has Kyungsoo gasping, too. Smothering his own _You matters_ ’s, _I’m sorry_ ’s, _I want to try_ ’s.

They flip positions easily, Chanyeol stopping just briefly to tug at fabric, bare Kyungsoo for one more lingering suck. Reverence in that, too. And Kyungsoo straddles Chanyeol’s waist, asks Chanyeol to watch. He makes a show of it, uses too much lube, tilts his hips up unnecessary high as he stretches himself open, moans filthily for pure provocation.

Chanyeol watches, lip caught between his teeth, the occasional breathy praise slipping through as Kyungsoo fucks down on his own fingers, catches Chanyeol’s too-heavy, too-adoring eyes. He twists, curls, and Chanyeol reaches forward to thumb at his nipples, pinching as Kyungsoo gasps.

And Chanyeol grips his hips as Kyungsoo grinds back, sinks down. He’s so fucking full, pauses briefly to luxuriate in the stretch. Kyungsoo cards his fingers through Chanyeol’s hair, pants into his mouth, as he starts a rhythm. He rises and falls, avoids Chanyeol’s eyes, focuses instead on the exquisite drag of Chanyeol’s cock. In and out, deep, dragging. Kyungsoo writhes, whimpers.

And Chanyeol’s still so dizzyingly pliant, so eager to please. Even now. It’s about _him_ , about Kyungsoo. And Kyungsoo swallows back a sob, channeling it into a dirty moan that has Chanyeol trembling against him, spilling Kyungsoo’s name in a reverent hiss.

Kyungsoo bounces even faster, spine bent, muscles taut, braced on the headboard, neck bared for Chanyeol’s claiming lips. The heat mounts and mounts and mounts, and Kyungsoo grinds down desperately now. So that Chanyeol’s cock is grazing just right, just _there_. Kyungsoo sobs, and Chanyeol drives upwards to press even deeper. There’s the most obscene smack every time their hips collide.

Chanyeol starts up again with his _I love you_ ’s, lets them slide as easily as his pants, his moans, his gorgeous praises, his smooth, delicious thrusts. “I love you,” he pants, closing his hands around Kyungsoo’s hips again, holding him steady as he fucks upward with devastating accuracy. He renders Kyungsoo a mess of puppet limps, limp, luxuriating with weak, liquid grinds. His head lolls, chin crashing against own bare, sweaty shoulder as he lets out filthier moans. Loud and whiny, stuttering out with every perfect, staggering push of Chanyeol’s cock. And Chanyeol is so _strong_ , so firm. He grinds against him, then, forces him steady, and it’s slower, deeper, perfect. “I love you. You’re so perfect, Soo. I love you.”

Strained, unsteady, but sure, and Kyungsoo knows that he means it. That’s it’s on Kyungsoo.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts

But Kyungsoo’s chasing the pain, the emptiness away with the exquisite, forbidden promise of Chanyeol’s reverent fingertips, his staggering thrusts.

Kyungsoo barely registers the jagged desperation of his own moans. Too far gone to hide his own need. He pants Chanyeol’s name over and over again, chasing the high, the white noise, the pleasure already fogging his lidded eyes.

I’m scared, Kyungsoo wants to say. I was scared, but you’re so easy. You’re so safe. Please, Chanyeol. Let me know that you can’t stop this either.

But he rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Bites his lip, writhes back and forth mindlessly the closer he gets, outright begging Chanyeol to touch him.

Chanyeol bends his knees, and Kyungsoo braces himself, undulating, moaning, as Chanyeol sits up, grips his cock. And it’s just two jerks, tight, twisting, and Kyungsoo’s coming, collapsing forward to whimper into Chanyeol’s throat. He jerks through the aftershocks, skim thrumming, holding fast as the elder continues to surge into him, seeking his own release.

His pace is more erratic, sloppier, and Kyungsoo relishes the way that Chansoo pants his name between fucks upwards.

And his deep voice is rising, rising, rising until it cracks, and he manages another breathy “I love you” as he quivers through orgasm. Chanyeol pulses inside of him, and Kyungsoo jerks at the feeling, but clenchs to make Chanyeol moan again. In quiet, strained reverence.

Kyungsoo clings tight, suddenly decidedly needy, and Chanyeol doesn’t protest. Shifts their bodies, so they’re still pressed tight. Sweaty and disgusting, precarious, on the cusp of.

“Please,” Kyungsoo manages. And he kisses him soft and possessive in the afterglow.

In the languor of it, Chanyeol turns to trace his bare sternum, fingers dragging mole to mole as Kyungsoo breathes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, finally, lulled by the steady brush of Chanyeol’s affections. “I can’t—can’t it back, but I’m sorry. And I can try with you.”

Chanyeol raises his head slightly, worries his bottom lip between his white teeth. His eyes are guarded again. His bangs are plastered to his forehead, lips swollen, too. Kyungsoo’s heart aches.

“That’s not fair of you,” he decides. “Knowing how hard it is to say no.”

Kyungsoo swallows hard, nods. He closes his fingers over Chanyeol’s wrist, urges him to continue in his ministrations as his own fingers tiptoe up Chanyeol’s side. He watches their movement in lieu of meeting Chanyeol’s imploring gaze. “I don’t love you,” he says slowly. “But I plan to. Someday. Maybe. Want to be on that path.”

Chanyeol exhales heavy, and Kyungsoo reaches out to thumb at the corner of his mouth. Chanyeol kisses his finger softly.

“You don’t respect me,” he says, speaking against his skin. “Don’t respect us.”

“I didn’t,” Kyungsoo concedes. “But I’m—I’m trying to. And you’re not—not easy. Not a pass time. Not a warm body for me to fuck, Chanyeol. You’re what I _want_.”

Chanyeol hesitates, and Kyungsoo presses higher, looks higher, too. He tilts his head up to kiss Chanyeol’s eyelids, thick eyelashes tickling against his lips.

“You needed something from me that I wasn’t ready to give. Needed something that I was scared to need, too. But I need this, Chanyeol. I do. I want this.” _It was awful without you._

Chanyeol breathes out a quiet okay. So quiet that Kyungsoo isn’t sure he’s heard it, nudges at Chanyeol’s side until he repeats it. Louder, thicker, voice wet with it.

Kyungsoo pulls back to smile at him, and Chanyeol is _beautiful_ like this, disconcertingly perfect—his, Kyungsoo’s—like this.


End file.
